


from French to English and vise versa

by whataboutpierre (sunflowerwithfeelings)



Series: Les Mis Soulmates [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Artist Grantaire, Cosette And Enjolras Are Siblings, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Modern Era, Soulmates, Soulmates Switching, Tattooed Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 18:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11258085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerwithfeelings/pseuds/whataboutpierre
Summary: Grantaire sits sulking in his apartment in Paris when, on the other side of the world, America is celebrating Enjolras' 18th birthday. What happens when you wake up in a different country and you can't understand a word anyone says?





	1. from French

**Author's Note:**

> I've been seeing a lot of soulmate AU's and I just really wanted to write one! This fandom has a lot of soulmate AU's (which i read all the time) but they're always the tattoo ones, so i decided to kick it up a notch because I love languages. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not quite bilingual yet but I am actively trying to learn Italian and improve on Spanish!

 

 

Grantaire was convinced he didn’t have a soulmate since he woke up the next day from his 18th birthday and he wasn’t in anothers body. Éponine had knocked on his door incessantly, even though he didn’t want to wake up, demanding he come out. At first, she thought whoever was Grantaire’s soulmate was in his body already when he opened the door. But after a long series of questions, she eventually gave up, but didn’t lose hope for him. She was absolutely sure Grantaire had a soulmate.

She started saying that his soulmate was just younger than him so life should be a constant surprise, but Grantaire didn’t buy it. There were people out there, outside of his apartment in Paris, that had no soulmate, even in the city of love. Including him.

He didn’t bother hoping like Éponine did, but it was easy for her to hope. She’d already found her soulmate. Grantaire opened the door to Éponine, who wasn’t really Éponine, but instead a girl who worked at a coffee shop all the way in the neighboring country of Spain. Grantaire was lucky that he knew just enough Spanish to calm the girl down and invite her inside. (Éponine left a note and with the help of Google Translate, the girl was able to find Grantaire.)

Grantaire was remembering this all one night, staring at his blank canvas as the feeling of tequila burned down his throat. The city outside was wonderfully alive, lovers laughing and dancing in the street. He strayed away from the internet because America was celebrating something that Grantaire didn’t give a fuck about and everyone was happy. Everyone was happy. Delightfully happy. Except for him.

He convinced himself he didn’t need to have a soulmate to make him feel whole, and they didn’t. A soulmate’s purpose was specifically for the intention for both parties to know they weren’t alone in whatever they were going through. To be a shoulder to cry on. To be _the_ shoulder to cry on. To be _the_ voice to make you smile. To be _the_ complement to your soul.

But Grantaire didn’t _have_ a complement. No, art could only fill the void for so long and Grantaire had spent three, maybe four, years looking at the void that he now grew comfortable with it. He accepted he didn’t have a soulmate. And with that he was content.

He picked up his brush and began with a dark blue at the top, fading it down into a sky blue and at the very edge of the horizon a light blue. The buildings next and then the legendary Eiffel Tower, because what’s a French painting without one. On the bottom, he painted the street below. The people and their smiles, the lights and their glow. It made the painting bittersweet, but that’s what the museum liked about his art, or that’s what they told him at least. He painted happy scenes but you could still see how pained he was.

Grantaire guessed it was his fate to be sad.

His vision started to fray a little around the edges. He glanced at the clock, four in the morning. He supposed going to bed would be the best decision, but his legs willed otherwise. Before he knew it, his eyelids were closing while he was still at his canvas. Falling asleep on the floor wasn’t anything new.

 

* * *

 

 

When he awoke, he wasn’t on the floor anymore. Maybe Éponine or Bahorel had moved him to his bed during the day. But these sheets? They weren’t his. They were much more plush and soft than his old and worn ones.

His skin felt warm and something about the way the room smelled didn’t seem right. Was Éponine burning a candle?

He opened his eyes and _no_ -

This wasn’t his room.

He looked down.

This wasn’t his bed, or his body, or his house, or maybe even his country!

The bedroom he sat in was a normal white color, everything folded neatly away. Was his soulmate a neat-freak? Grantaire hoped not or they'd have some serious problems, himself being the 'organized-mess' sort of person. On the foot of the bed frame was a red jacket that matched various other things in the room. Everything was so weird and so...American?

There was a knock on the door, a woman’s voice called out but it was in a language he didn’t fully grasp. English. Of course his soulmate lived in a country where they spoke English! Just his luck! The universe was truly laughing at him now.

'Let's throw him a bone and give him a soulmate,' Grantaire thought. 'But make sure their native language is fucking English, just to fuck with Grantaire!!'

The woman was now calling someone’s name. It definitely wasn’t his. Most likely his soulmates.

Before he knew it, two women were in the room, heaving Grantaire out of bed and making him walk in feet that weren’t his, down a long hallway. Was his soulmate rich?

Grantaire had put the pieces together that he was, in fact, in America but he could only pick out fragments of each sentence. He felt much like an alien wherever he was. Something like the owners of whatever house (?) he was in had been expecting him. Whoever his soulmate was, was younger than him.

Unfortunately, Grantaire hadn’t gotten to take a look in the mirror but he saw blond, curly hair flop in front of his face every now and again.

One of the women grabbed his elbow and walked him into a room where two adults, as well as a girl around Grantaire’s own age, maybe a little younger, sat. This wasn’t just any normal family. This was _the_ family. As in the _first_ family of the United States.

Grantaire locked eyes with everyone in the room for a split second before glancing around to find any reflective surface available. A small mirror was placed before a table on one side of the room. Grantaire ran up to it and brought his hands up to his face. Staring back at him was probably the most beautiful human he’s ever seen in his life. This boy had the most gorgeous blue eyes, far superior to Grantaires’. He had a sharp jaw and an elegant but sturdy frame. His skin was a light brown, very similar to the First Ladys'. Grantaire had seen the son before, in pictures only, but this up close, he looked unbelievably different. What did Grantaire do to earn an angel as his soulmate? What did he do to deserve this god of a man?

He wasn’t aware he was mumbling in incoherent French till the suspected father of the boy, who stood behind him, placed a firm hand on his shoulder. He spoke in a calm voice and pronounced in perfect French, “Calm down. Who are you?”

Grantaire felt amazingly awkward as he stood in grey sweatpants, a red shirt, and no socks in the dining room of the White House while the President of the United States spoke French especially for him. He knew the President was a first-generation citizen, his parents coming from France, so the language wasn’t totally from left field. But everything else definitely was. This could easily be a dream or simulation of sorts.

His brain whipped together the simplest English sentence he could and said, “I am Grantaire.”

The President led Grantaire away from the mirror and to the table with the rest of the family, he didn’t even know his soulmate and he was already meeting the family. Great.

“You’re my son, Enjolras’s, soulmate, yes?” The President asked Grantaire yet again in French. Grantaire lowered himself into a chair and looked down at the table and around at the other family members before answering in English as best he could.

“Yes. I am from Paris. I am a…” Grantaire’s mind blanked at the word for ‘painter’. He knew he could just say ‘artiste’ and the family would hopefully understand, but he felt like he had to not impress, but show a little respect to this family in power. He ended up waving his hand like he was painting, feeling like an absolute nutcase, and the daughter pointed at him.

“Painter?”

“Oui!”

The mother smiled and took a sip of orange juice, looking at the father. “Our little Enjolras’s soulmate is a painter. How lovely!”

Speaking of him, Enjolras is probably awake now, on the other side if the world, in Grantaire’s body. Poor kid, Grantaire didn’t even clean the place. Or leave a note like Éponine. Or wash his hair before. Or charge his phone.

_Fuck._

Grantaire asked Mr. President, probably should address him as something else (dad? sir? his name?), if he could borrow a phone somewhere. The ladies who had guided him from Enjolras’s room to the breakfast table took him to a room with a phone and left him be to make a phone call.

He called Éponine.

“Please pick up...please pick up…” He muttered to himself as he danced from side to side, twirling the phone’s ancient and antique cord around his pointer finger.


	2. to English

Enjolras was tired. Like really _tired_. His parents, being the pinnacle of the American Media at this point, demanded they throw him a huge eighteenth birthday party. Which was fine until his birthday actually came. The day of he’d woken up from his bed, trekked down the hall, and had breakfast with his family just as they always had. Cosette eyed him as if he was going to explode, but he still had hours till it was officially his birth-time.

He was showered with presents, which wasn’t _horrible_ , and had been sitting out in the backyard, watching fireworks with his family when he felt his left hand go numb. He stood up and made a beeline for his room, he was not about to have his soulmate wake up on the fucking lawn, possibly soaked from the morning sprinklers.

Before any of the staff could notice he was missing from his own birthday party, he had secured himself inside his room, no locks unfortunately, and onced himself over one last time before crawling in bed.

Enjolras was never fond of the idea that Fate™ had decided who was right for him before he got the chance to have a say, but with someone next to him who’d support him in all his causes, what’s the worst that could happen?

His eyelids slid shut.

 

* * *

 

 

When he awoke his back fucking _hurt_. Where was he lying? The answer was on the ground. Enjolras’s soulmate had fallen asleep on the ground. And on a hardwood floor out of all things.

Enjolras cracked his eyes open and supported himself on his elbows, before shifting up to his hands, getting himself up off the ground. Alcohol reeked from his breath, and this was also supported by the various liquor bottles littering the apartment.

Before he could criticized his soulmate harshly, he rubbed his eyes with his hands. Beard. And paint stained hands. Paint? Where did this come from?

Enjolras turned around and saw a canvas standing on an old, wooden easel. The scene it depicted was beautiful but it hurt Enjolras to look at in a sense. It was so sad. The people dancing and laughing at the bottom were so happy but something about the sky and the way the buildings scattered themselves across the horizon made Enjolras feel a deep pang in his chest.

Then he noticed the Eiffel Tower.

“Where am I?” He said with a voice that was most definitely not his voice. His soulmate, whoever it was, had an accent. A French accent. A beautiful, sweet, baritone, French accent.

He looked at the apartment some more. Minimal furniture, lots of flannel and plaid shirts, practically nothing in the refrigerator but no sign of bills anywhere. Enjolras was the younger out of the two but what different lives the two of them led. When walking into the bathroom, Enjolras caught his reflection in the mirror. His soulmate was stunning.

Dark hair with seafoam blue eyes that popped against his skin. His skin was white, but more on the olive side. Speaking of skin, it was then Enjolras noticed a tattoo on the back of his soulmates neck, it ducked pasted the hem of his shirt, meaning it was a back-piece. Enjolras felt weird, like he was prying, but he lifted his soulmates shirt off his body anyway, just to take a look at it. It was beautiful.

At the top of his neck was the latch hoop of a pocket watch, the numbers on the watch itself were in roman numerals. Beneath that was a skull, facing the right, with smoke coming from its eyes and behind it. It cast a shadow on the watch and on his soulmate's body like it was real and simply laying on the skin. Underneath the skull’s left jaw, roses bloomed in shades of black, white, and grey. The rest of his lower right back was littered with compases, maps, and more roses. Solid black birds flew out from this collection of things.

His soulmate looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine or in a photographer's portfolio. Enjolras put his shirt back on and felt like he’d gotten extremely lucky.

Enjolras moved into the bedroom; he noticed the other’s phone, on the verge of death. He quickly plugged it in and before it shut off, saw the lockscreen. It was of a painting, Vincent Van Gogh no doubt. He just didn’t know what the painting was called.

But the phone died, and with it, there was a knock on the door.

“Grantaire! We’re going to be late,” a woman said in a language that was not English. Enjolras was in France. Enjolras was in France!

He opened the door and the woman looked him up and down and without missing a beat said in fluent English, “you’re not Grantaire.”

“No. I’m-”

“His soulmate!!” The girl cried before stumbling into the apartment. “I told him he had one, I knew it-I knew it-I knew it! You’re just younger. Who _are_ you?”

Enjolras felt a bit overwhelmed at the girl’s questions and enthusiasm but answered, “My name is Enjolras and I’m from America.”

“Oh. Yikes,” the girl said, giving Enjolras a look of worry.

“Why? What’s wrong?” Enjolras asked, stepping closer to the girl.

“Poor Grantaire. He _hates_ English, ha!” She was instantly smiling again. “I’m sure he’s doing fine. My name’s Éponine, I’ll show you around the city if you like.”

Enjolras looked down at Grantaire’s clothes. They were obviously worn but Enjolras felt himself prying if he changed all of Grantaire’s clothes for him.

“But didn’t you and Grantaire,” that sounded weird in his mouth, “have something to do?”

“Oh, that was just the museum. I’ve been telling them that you were going to come soon though, they’ll understand.” Éponine took Enjolras’s hand and waltzed him out of the door before he had any objections.

* * *

  

They were sitting on a bench on the Champs-Élysées when Éponine’s phone rang. She wrinkled her nose at it, but Enjolras recognized the number and hit accept for her.

“ _Éponine_!” Shouted Enjolras’s voice from the other side.

She picked up the phone and listened as Grantaire babbled in French to her. Her eyes grew wide as she took it all in, Enjolras didn’t know if she was blinking. She responded in French and looked at Enjolras with a calmer expression than before. She looked at him like she was trying to find him or imagine what he really looked like. Her cheeks flushed slightly. While Grantaire was talking she moved the phone from her mouth.

“You’re the President’s son?” She asked.

Enjolras just shrugged and crossed his legs in his seat. His father spoke French so it probably wasn’t hard for Grantaire to communicate with anyone other than him, glad there was less of a language barrier there. But Enjolras could imagine the culture shock Grantaire would be getting right about now. For starters, Grantaire would be waking up in a bed and not on the floor.

Éponine eventually hung up and sighed, her lips curving into a smile.

“What did he say?” Enjolras asked, a little worried.

“What _didn’t_ he say?” Éponine closed her eyes and shook her head.

A voice from behind the two was calling out Grantaire's name, Enjolras not responding to it at first. Éponine tapped his shoulder as the person approached, a tall dark skinned man who looked fairly happy yet a little agitated.

"Where the hell have you been? I thought we were going to get coffee," He said in French, Enjolras now realizing he was the one being spoken to.

His face felt warm, "uhm...I don't-"

Éponine cut in for him, bless her multilingual heart. "It's not Grantaire, it's his soulmate. Can't speak French at all," she said.

"Ohhh," the man said, his head nodding like he understood. "Tell him my name and ask him if he wants to visit the museum. I'm sure he saw Grantaire's apartment, he probably has questions."

Éponine's face lit up as she smiled and turned back to Enjolras. "This is Bahorel, one of Grantaire's friends. He wants to know if you want to go to a museum, since Grantaire is a painter."

"Oh, that's his job?" Enjolras asked. Éponine nodded her head, the hat on her head jiggling. "Okay, I don't see why not."

On their walk with Bahorel to the museum, Enjolras heard Éponine sigh but giggle to herself. “Either I get to play translator tomorrow or Grantaire better start learning English for real this time.”

Enjolras snorted, “he took English class?”

“Oh yeah, you do in school,” Éponine explained. “But things don’t always translate well and Grantaire didn’t really want to learn it anyway.”

 _Interesting_.

 

 

* * *

 

It became apparent to Enjolras that Grantaire was very into mythologies even if he lacked religious faith. Most of his art, that totally blew Enjolras out of the water, was inspired by or centered around different themes of all sorts of world mythology. 

One piece stood out to him. 

When he first saw it, his jaw dropped. Not only in awe of how good it was, but of how it made you feel. A pair of cream, yet semi-chard, wings were flying in from the bottom looking so elegant yet frantic. Like they were trying to hard to reach the focal point of the painting no matter what it did to them. In the middle of a bright blue sky was what was supposed to be the sun, but instead was a man who you were to assume was Apollo, the greek god. His hair was long and made a circular shape to resemble that of the sun. Apollo's skin was dark and his arms crossed, looking very disapproving of the wings trying so very hard to get to him. 

Bahorel looked at Éponine when they saw how enchanted Enjolras was with the painting. Bahorel stopped next to Enjolras, Éponine standing on the other side of him.

He started speaking to Enjolras, Éponine translating everything he said as soon as he said it.

"The museum had been begging and begging Grantaire for another piece but he was stuck in an...artist's block. The day that he made this, Grantaire came barreling into my apartment yelling 'I've finally figured it out!' I couldn't understand what he meant because he ran out before I could ask him. He spent all night doing it, I really don't think he slept. He never sleeps when he paints though. But I'd never seen him so enthusiastic about anything ever before. Usually when he paints, he lowers his expectations drastically so that when he's done, he's not disappointed. Nothing he does is ever a disappointment, but I'm not an artist. Anyway, he was so proud of himself, he almost hated it. He insisted I come over to look at what he had created, but when it came time to show me, he was so hesitant. So self-conscious. He's never like that because he knows I love everything he does."

Bahorel asked Éponine a question and she nodded, replying in French. Enjolras was thankful she was there to translate otherwise he'd be so lost. She hardly knew him, yet she was so willing to help Enjolras figure out who Grantaire really was. 

Éponine nudged him with her elbow. "Funny how Apollo looks a lot like you physically."

"Yeah," Enjolras said but he could feel something snap in his-Grantaire's-heart.


	3. and vise versa

Grantaire was back in his own body and anxiously tapping his foot against the cabin floor of the airplane. Éponine and her girlfriend had fallen asleep side by side when the flight started, so now it was just him and his thoughts. Enjolras stayed up that night before they switched back and made Grantaire a playlist of English songs he could listen to on the plane ride there. Grantaire did the same but with French songs.

He couldn’t become fluent overnight, but he was trying his damndest to try and pick up as much as he could. English was _close enough_ to Spanish, which Grantaire was so thankful he knew yet again.

The plane landed and if his nerves weren’t actually on fire before, they were a conflagration by now. His hands felt like they might pop; he felt the need to rub his palms on his knees to make the feeling go away. He grabbed his bag from the overhead compartment and trailed behind Éponine and her “plus one” all the way through the airport. She was a better navigator than him, arguably.

On the ride from the airport, Grantaire tried his best to look out the window and read the signs in English, trying to only speak to Éponine in that language too.

But he didn’t need all that preparation.

When Grantaire finally met Enjolras in person, the boy sculpted from the Gods themselves, the wind and words got knocked out of him. He was even more stunning than before. The blond walked up to him and held out his hand for Grantaire to take. He was warm. He was soft.

“Let’s leave Grantaire and the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen alone,” Éponine said to her girlfriend, knowing both Enjolras and Grantaire heard that. Grantaire instantly turned red.

“Is that what you were telling her on the phone yesterday?” Enjolras asked Grantaire, his right eyebrow quirking up.

“You were...you didn’t understand what I said right?” Grantaire asked, hoping he said everything correct.

“No, but I heard most of your rambles.” Enjolras was now strolling side by side with Grantaire in the halls of the White House. “French is a beautiful language. I’ve always wanted to learn it.”

“I’ll teach you mon amour,” Grantaire lifted Enjolras’s hand and kissed it warmly. Goosebumps shivered down Enjolras’s back and never had he felt more at peace.

 

* * *

**  
** _**Five years later…** _

* * *

 

Cosette had found her soulmate, a shy man called Marius, who happened to be a friend of a friend of Grantaire’s. Funny how small the world actually is.

She hadn’t seen her brother in a few years as he stopped coming to family functions and lived snugly with Grantaire in Paris, but family things were never for him anyway. She and Marius had flown to Paris, Marius telling her that them and a couple friends were all going to meet up at this cafe they frequented.

She walked in with her soulmate and instantly heard shouting from the back of the cafe. No doubt her brothers voice yelling in babbles with another one coming in and out.

“They’ve already begun,” Marius said to Cosette.

There she saw her brother and Grantaire, both red in the face, yelling at the top of their lungs about something she couldn’t understand in French. Grantaire was looking up at Enjolras who was standing on a chair, waving his arms around and doing _the_ eyeroll he usually did when in an argument about economics or politics or-

Oh _no_.

“YOUR ARGUMENT IS WEAK! COME FOR ME WHEN YOU HAVE AN REAL ONE!” Grantaire, who put too much emphasis on the ‘k’ in ‘weak’, flung his arms in the air and turned away from Enjolras, who stepped down off of his chair.

“YOU’RE SO FUCKING _INFURIATING_!” Enjolras shot back, scooting the chair back to where it was supposed to be. “Half of your English still doesn’t make any bloody sense…” He grumbled but Grantaire shot up and turned back around.

Grantaire leaned forward at Enjolras in a teasing, sarcastic manner, “oh I’m _sorry_ , what country are we _in_?!” He paused and watched Enjolras, who looked like he was ready to kiss the living shit out of him.

  
“You should try talking in my shoes for one mile!” Grantaire stated _oh so confidently._

“That doesn’t even make-”

Grantaire smirked but kept his sarcastic, yet oddly charming, tone the same. “I know what I meant to meant!”

It was here where Cosette had to remind herself that they’ve been married for four wonderful years and Grantaire was the only thing that made Enjolras smile the brightest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last part was inspired by [this](http://groff-me-up.tumblr.com/post/162023415589) post and i just _had_ to yanno?
> 
> Anyway, if you liked that feel free to follow me [here](http://queersunflowers.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! 
> 
> Leave a comment, those make my day!


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